


On being human

by mentalobservations



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Gen, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 09:58:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1118529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mentalobservations/pseuds/mentalobservations
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Mary's engagement announcement at a holiday party makes Sherlock stop and consider the depth of his feelings for John. Set after the empty hearse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On being human

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! This is my first time writing johnlock fanfiction so if you have any advice on how I can improve that'd be appreciated. Hope you enjoy the story!

Sherlock was perched in an armchair, feet propped up on a coffee table as he rested his chin in his hand, staring into the fire. His face was fixed in a mask of apathy, to a casual observer he would have seemed bored, and although he considered the setting to be so, he was not bored. Sherlock was frantic.

He was listening intently to snatches of conversation, "congratulations to you both!" This was accompanied by a hearty backslap, and Sherlock heard John stumble to right himself. 

"Thanks Greg." He sounded happy too, Sherlock thought, analyzing his intonation as he swirled the glass of brandy and drank, trying not to smell the bitter liquid. It traced down his throat like fire and pooled unsettlingly in his stomach. He'd tired hours earlier of hovering slightly behind the happy couple and pretending to smile, as he feared it'd appear more as a grimace. An attempt to intoxicate himself was somehow a more appealing option, perhaps then he could stop overthinking, well, everything.

This wasn't how he wanted things to go. Sherlock had planned on it being him and John against the world, solving crimes together. He tolerated John. Sherlock recalled a conversation he'd had with Mycroft and a ghost of a smile flickered over his face. Mycroft probably would have insinuated John was his goldfish. Hardly, John was intelligent in his own way. And he stayed with Sherlock despite his eccentricities. No he didn't tolerate John, he lo-"Sherlock!" The interruption broke through his reverie, which was just as well since Sherlock wasn't as in control of his mind as he would have preferred.

He looked up to see Anderson teetering in front of him. Off balance, flushed skin, relaxed demeanor, combined with the nearly empty glass of amber fluid that had several different track marks, Anderson had set the glass down, poured himself another and drank from a different spot on the lip, as well as the wafting smell of whiskey on his breath. Clearly, Anderson was inebriated. Still, Sherlock could see guilt hidden in his expression. 

"Anderson," he said, standing, pausing to grab the chair for balance. "Perhaps you should sit a while," he let the suggestion hang for a moment, making eye contact to establish sincerity. 

Anderson hesitated, then nodded and sat down heavily. Sherlock patted his shoulder to distract the man as he lifted the glass out of his fingers. " Thanks Sherlock," he said, the words slurring.

Sherlock walked away, setting the glass down on an end table before walking out to the hallway to pull on his coat and scarf, avoiding the eyes of other guests in varies states of drunkenness, from Mycroft, unfortunately sober, to a rather lush sergeant Donovan, who was leaning against his brother, eyelashes batting. Under other circumstances he would have found the scene amusing. 

He reached for the door handle, glancing to see where John was, then thought bitterly that he wouldn't note his absence, stepping outside into the slushy cold, shutting the door harder than he intended. It was fine, after all Sherlock Holmes didn't have friends. A tiny voice raised doubt to the statement, reminding him of the effort he'd expended to save mrs Hudson, Lestrade and John when Moriarty threatened them. He thought of his parents and grudgingly, his brother. Was that really true? Yes, of course it was, he thought, attempting to wave the question away. He reached into his coat pockets, fumbling for a pack of cigarettes before extracting one, placing it between his teeth and flicking the lighter. Fire. Racing to save John from the climbing flames, pulling him free and cupping his face in his hands, the panic and guilt overtaking everything else, it was his fault in some way, surely, it had to be, and then suddenly, relief, as his eyes fluttered open and Sherlock took in the blue gray irises, circling flecks of gold, slightly protruding nose-Sherlock suspected he'd been in a few fist fights in his time in the army- and slightly parched lips.

Sherlock had felt a tug deep inside the pit of his stomach, a sudden to urge to kiss John, which was illogical for several reasons, the most important one being that he was still suffering from smoke inhalation, and also, Sherlock had to remind himself John wasn't his, never had been. He was with Mary, they would get married. So he had sat back and let Mary coddle him.

The sting of cold wind against his face snapped the detective back to the present. "Those things will kill you." And suddenly Lestrade was next to him.

"Grant," he said, giving no other indication that he had noticed the other mans' presence. He gripped the railing, the metal biting into his palm as he tried to stifle the feelings of resentment that stirred.

"Greg," the detective replied automatically, having resigned himself to the fact that Sherlock couldn't be bothered to remember his name or simply chose to act like he didn't. Sherlock saw him hesitate, then he swiftly plucked the cigarette from between his lips, throwing it out into the snow, and shoved the lighter into his pocket.

Sherlock sighed, "I could pull that out of your pocket without you even noticing." He paused, then added, "I have more cigarettes." 

Lestrade looked at him, smiled and said, "yeah, I know." He leaned and looked out at the sky, breath coming out in little puffs.

Sherlock looked over, amused by his self assurance that he wouldn't act on the threat. Lestrade raked a hand through his greying hair, sighed and said "John was looking for you. " Sherlocks only response was to press his lips more tightly together. " I don't know what's going on with you two, dealing with people isn't my division," he paused, smiling as if he'd just made a joke, then continued haltingly," talk to him, Sherlock." He reached over as if to pat his shoulder, then must have decided against it, although hours later Sherlock would find the lighter nestled safely in his pocket. He heard the door close quietly as Lestrade went back inside.

He straightened his coat, debating the pros and cons of actually attempting to communicate his opinion on the marriage situation to John. Perhaps he could write a paper about it, although he discarded this idea after recalling the effect of his paper about concealed hatred. He considered simply sitting down with John and explaining his reasoning, perhaps over tea. From what he'd read during his stint of psychological analysis, communication was important in healthy relationships, although it was possible that John would react violently. Sherlock had noticed tendencies to do so when presented with information he had difficulty processing.

Sherlock still hadn't reached a decision when the front door opened, then shut with some force. Sherlock knew who it was by the footfall, the slightly heavy breathing, the swish of jeans."it's cold outside," John said, offering up the statement to break the silence. 

Sherlock didn't look at him, staring distractedly into the distance as he calculated the best course of action. "Obviously," he replied, in an aside that made it difficult for John to tell if he was talking to him or if Sherlock was talking to himself, with the benefit of an audience.

"Yes, well..." John trailed off, unsure how to continue. "Are you alright? You and Mary seem to get on so I assumed-"

"-never assume unless there is no other course of action and then chose the most logical recourse, you are familiar with Occam's Razor?" Sherlock replied, but the reply lacked it's usual terseness.

John sighed, briefly considering a retreat back to the house, but remembered the look on Lestrades face when he had said Sherlock was outside and Mary's gentle nudge that he should go. "You didn't answer the question. " he said quietly.

Sherlock paused before answering, "physically, I am fine. Mrs Hudson's efforts to force me to eat continue, but I am healthy." 

John stepped closer, tilting Sherlocks chin down with a surgeons steady fingers. "Have you been drinking?" He asked, confusion and concern clear in the set of his brow.

"I don't drink." Sherlock replied, attempting to ignore the shiver Johns casual sent down his spine.

"But you have been," he countered, letting his hand, drop, grazing one of Sherlocks lapels.

Sherlock flinched away from the contact, and the words came out in a rush "I don't do well with others. People are boring, but you aren't John, I expected to be able to return and have things continue the way they were before, I'm unaccustomed to things to events not preceding according to plan. This party is hideous, but brandy slows the reaction somewha-" 

While Sherlock spoke John listened intently, until understanding lit up in his eyes and he grabbed Sherlock roughly by the coat, and he fell into John, stumbling. He reached out to steady himself, but John tugged harder, and Sherlocks' grasping fingers slipped over the soft wool of his jumper as their lips crashed together, and Sherlock stopped thinking, wrapping his arms around Johns neck. The kiss was short and gentle but somehow managed to convey everything words couldn't. 

Sherlock pulled away first, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He coughed awkwardly and said "I'm glad you shaved the mustache." 

"Ah," John mumbled. "Sherlock, I-I can't do this. I need to think." 

Sherlock nodded, "I have an experiment back at the flat that needs to be observed." He turned on his heel, and John watched as he walked away, the blue of his overcoat blending into the dark, then the flicker of a cigarette before that too vanished. 

John sighed, tapped the handrail lightly and returned to the warmth of the house. Guests attempted to engage him in conversation but he seemed confused and distracted, and Mary looked on, concerned before eventually sending everyone home. 

Across town, a single light was on in 221b Baker Street, and the sorrowful tune of a violin wafted into the night.


End file.
